


Memoires des Marguerites

by josiegrae



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Developing Friendships, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14308188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiegrae/pseuds/josiegrae
Summary: She found him in the ruins. He found her when she was lost.





	Memoires des Marguerites

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything, all characters and spells belong to JKR. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta who helped me conquer my fears, believed in me and helped me grow.

As the dust slowly settles around the castle, and his breath begins to return to his lungs, he hears sounds—sounds which had muted before when he was staring into the empty eyes of a man who had wished to kill him. Harry's focus has been on Voldemort for so long; he hasn't been paying attention to much else around him—not the crowd that amassed around him or the dead that lay at the edges of the showdown. The tension in his muscles falls eventually, like a sheet sliding from around his shoulders.

All Harry knows for sure is that he wants to be alone, for a second—for a single moment. It doesn't take him long to achieve it; fresh air hitting his skin, standing where no one could see him, needing peace to organise his thoughts.

"Hello _saviour_."

Harry turns, kicking a crumbled brick as her eyes stare at him with sympathy. "Hello. _Daphne_ , isn't it?"

She nods, her dirty blonde hair—blood and stone, ash and tatted—swinging around her shoulders.

"Thank you...for Parkinson, you know, stopping her from, um, handing me over."

Her lips turn into a half-smile. "No problem, honestly, it's the least I could do. Especially because you, um, you know, saved us." Harry knows she is teasing him, and he doesn't mind, he was too tired to care.

A silence falls between them, comfortable but unexpected.

"How d'you feel...now everything is _over_?" she asks, and he meets her eyes again, unable to turn away.

Harry's hand brushes through his hair, dust falling down his face. "Why do you care?"

Daphne's shoulders shrug before her hand moves up to rub her shoulder. "Didn't think anyone had bothered to ask; too concerned with their happiness it's over or their grief at who they lost."

"They hadn't," Harry mumbles, as Daphne offers a soft look that he suspects is a smile. "I feel...lost, I guess?"

"You're more than a hero, okay? You're also a person; you're Harry. You're still you, even if all _you_ have been is the Boy Who Lived. You need to remember that, otherwise everything—photos, titles—it will get harder."

His mouth opens, ready to ask her something else, but she's already awkwardly limping back to the castle, leaving him full of confusion and alone once more.

* * *

At school, Harry had never seen a version of Daphne that looked undone, but the one currently sitting outside the coffee shop is the opposite of what he knows. His heart is racing, and Harry knows he is already sweating from nerves as he takes in her appearance, never before seeing someone so beautiful. She is wearing dark-washed jeans, a thick blue jumper—which is hiding both her frame and her hands. Her lips—usually covered in gloss—are flaky and swollen, as though she has been busy gnawing on them for some time.

Arching a brow, and moving out of the way of the few pedestrians around, Harry begins to cross the quiet road, flexing his fingers beside his pockets. He's nervous, he can feel it thumping through his veins, not entirely sure if he hates or loves it—but he tries not to overthink, not with her.

He's barely at the table when her big green eyes catch sight of him, widening further—if humanly possible—and quickly trying to paint a smile on her face, one that screams she's calm and collected, even if she isn't.

"Harry," she says breathlessly, as though his name has been circling her tongue for some time, and Harry offers a smile, a silence before she stands up. "I'm... _not_ entirely sure what to do. Should I hug you—"

He raises his hand, shaking his head. "That won't be necessary, unless—no, no, it's fine."

Daphne nods, silently sitting, taking her time as she moves to pick up a packet of sugar she had been toying with before. Her nail scrapes against it, and tension seems to fall from her shoulders as he sits opposite her. The air isn't thick with tension like he expected, but it isn't comfortable either—not that he expects it to be.

Neither were sat for long before the waitress arrives, and Daphne's voice surprises him when she orders, summoning confidence that wasn't there previously. She orders a _latte_ , skinny with a pump of vanilla—and he copies, not wanting to settle for his usual drink when he was sitting with her. Once alone, Daphne crosses her leg, shifting her position as she smiles innocently.

"I thought Muggle would be best," he begins, her eyes moving from him to the scenery behind him, "with photographers.. _.and family._ I have found visiting Diagon to be a chore, people don't seem to have boundaries _._ "

He's awkward, and he knows it, but nothing compares to the discomfort radiating from her.

"Well, you are a _hero_ ," she smirks, a smile falling over her face before quickly falling. "Plus, you _are_ meeting someone who could be _classed_ as the enemy."

Harry wishes he could bring her comfort, especially when he suggested they meet. She understands him better than others, but Harry knew he didn't understand her—he didn't know her.

Daphne rolls her lips before meeting his eyes. "It's nice, meeting you...but are you sure _she_ won't mind?"

For a second, Harry freezes, because he isn't sure who _she_ is or why _she_ would mind—and he frowns in response.

"Ginevra?" Daphne adds with an odd tone, as if Ginny's name feels sharp on her tongue. "Aren't you two _dating?"_

Harry wants to laugh, but he doesn't. "No, we...we are better as friends."

Daphne's eyebrow raises in surprise. "Oh, I see."

He notices a sudden comfort fall over her, as if nothing is between them now—except the war, the sides, family, and houses.

"I love this place," Harry adds, "this coffee shop has a lake behind it, and an ice-cream shop when it's sunny. I'm rambling, I know, and I'm not sure you even care, but it's a slice of heaven in a sea of shit, isn't it?"

Daphne's lips slide into a smirk. "Just like someone, _it seems_."

* * *

Harry's concentration has gone, vanished, as his eyes continue to drift from the sharp green eyes surrounded by long lashes, to the deep red lipstick he wishes he could press his lips against. The candle continues to flicker on the table, adding a soft glow, and creaminess to her skin—especially as she brushes her hair off her shoulder, her bare, _kissable_ shoulder.

"Nice place."

He swallows, once, twice, before the lump disappears from his throat. "I'm glad you like it."

Daphne has things to say, that much Harry knows. She's nervously waiting for the _right_ moment, but he'd rather her get to the point, her anxiousness unsettling him. He has already ordered wine, and informs her of this before she picks up the menu—he doesn't hide the smirk at her surprise, basking in being a step ahead of the Pureblood witch who is used to the finer things.

He has gone above his usual, not that Harry has dated many women. The place he has picked is posher than anywhere he has ever dined, for one there are more forks than he knows what to do with. It isn't because she is _different_ , but because deep down she isn't. Her heart and kindness are qualities he looks for, but a girl with her beauty is never someone a boy who grew up in a cupboard ever expects to be seated with. Harry doesn't want to _impress_ her because of her looks, but because of her heart. Most of all he doesn't want his usual sloppiness and ignorance to be what drives another _someone_ away—not when his heart skips a beat when she smiles.

Her fingers drill into the table, each finger alternating as they go down on the wood.

"My father is being looked at, investigated I guess," Daphne sighs, her other hand reaching for her wine, staining her lipstick against the glass. "He'll go to trial. He paid them—he paid for _protection_. For me, all of us," her head dips, and he knows he needs to comfort her.

"They'll see he was clean though. Your parents _had to_ protect themselves, protect you and your sister."

She places the glass back down on the table, the tip of her tongue sweeping over her lips. "I don't think it matters, _not really_. We're still the _bad_ guys, and _we_ didn't choose right."

Harry places his hand over hers. His body lights up as soon as their skins touch, a current flowing between them that can feed the city. He wonders for a second if it's their magic, swirling and itching to wrap around the other, but he considers this and forgets it in the same breath.

"I'm confident the Ministry will see that your father did what he had to do to protect his family," he replies, his thumb swiping over the back of her hand.

He doesn't miss the pink blossoming on her cheek or the way her eyes glitter with something mysterious.

"You continue to surprise me, Harry _Potter_ ," she half-smiles, turning her hand around so their fingers can weave together. "But I wish I had your optimism."

"I think it comes with the title," he smirks, feeling confident in himself, "the _Chosen One who Believes_."

She snorts lightly with a sweetness to it that makes it soft on his ears.

* * *

"It's not going well."

Harry hands her an ice-cream from the cafe, but decides this time to take her to sit by the river bank—a place he came to with Hermione straight after the war. It is beautiful, and Hermione told him her parents had brought her here too many times.

"His trial— _and thank you_ ," Daphne replies, taking the dessert, "—is coming up."

He surveys the place, watching the sun reflect against the water, feeling her move her head to rest on his shoulder. He likes it—enjoys it even.

Harry moves to look at her, watching her tongue lick lightly at the ice-cream. His fist clenches and unclenches in an attempt to relieve the sudden tension in his body, and he remembers it's his turn to speak. "I'll protect you, if I can."

"You would?" she splutters.

It's not something he even has to think about, as he brings his arm around her back. Bringing her closer feels natural. "I will," Harry smiles, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

"I love the daisies here," Daphne says with a sigh. "They're my _favourite_."

Harry softly smiles. "One day, I'll buy you a bouquet of daisies that will never die."

"You're too kind," Daphne teases, beginning to curl into him, as he feels nothing but happiness radiating from every pore in his body, even as she steals the flake from his ice-cream.

* * *

Harry knows she is not an angel, and he feels it is important to remind himself as he stares at her, but honestly, she looks like one. Standing on his doorstep, her blonde hair cascading down her back and a white dress blowing in the wind. The stormy backdrop shows the disarray in the world, but Harry believes she'll right that when she comes in.

She looks completely lost, although he knows this not to be true.

The parchment in her hand moves in the breeze, her fingers almost white from grasping it with such intensity, and Harry's glad she has come to him. When she owled for his address, his mind went into overdrive, not knowing if either of them would be prepared for her being here, but he doesn't care for those doubts now she is here. Daphne Greengrass is here, desperately clutching his address, desperately wanting to be here.

He's unknowingly taken steps back, in two minds whether to greet her or allow her to enter his home herself. All manners, all sensibility has gone, because she's standing here, in his bloody house, with him—and _fuck_ is she beautiful.

She closes the door, pressing her hand against the wood to ensure it is _truly_ closed before Daphne turns to face him. For a moment they both stare, admiring, looking each other up and down, and down and up again. Harry's heart is beating furiously in his chest, neck, and throat: _fer-fuck, fer-fuck, fer-fuck._

He sees her walking towards him, her heels sounding as she takes the four or five steps to get close to him. Then in a flash her fingers are in his hair, pulling his head down, and they're kissing—their lips are pressing to one another's. Harry knows his tongue is sweeping over her lipstick, and his hand is cruising up her back as her fingers grasp at his hair. He feels and hears her moan against his mouth, her hand moving against the growing bulge in his jeans—that came from nowhere, even if she is a _fucking_ vision—and his mind explodes at the realisation of what is happening.

He can't think. He can't act. Harry's mind is beginning to shut down as his natural instinct begins to take over, and he lifts her from the ground, pressing her back into the stair pillar.

" _Harry_."

Her voice, saying his name, it's bliss. It's the key to open a door he hadn't known was there, but he is glad she is the answer— _fuck is he glad._

* * *

The next evening, Daphne arrives on his front step in a similar fashion to the night before, but the backdrop of the world is brighter, the sun setting, painting the world in colours Harry has never seen. He greets her this time, hand on her waist, his other brushing her hair from her face, their lips meeting softly— _less hungry._

Harry waits to ravage her this time, taking her to the sitting room before her clothes begin to vanish from her skin. There are bruises from the night before, neither of them expecting to lose control on the stairs, but both glad they did.

The house needs her voice in it. It brightens when she speaks, the walls seeming less dreary and the ornaments less decrepit.

Harry transfigures his coat into a blanket for them—the carpet Molly had given him spelled into a mattress—but neither fall asleep once they find comfort, both brilliantly awake.

"I feel safe with you," she says suddenly, and he brings her closer to his chest, her head still dipped, eyes out of view. "I feel happy when I'm with you. I've not felt that in so long."

Harry feels the same, he knows he does, and he's about to say this when she looks up, and the words die on his lips.

"Your eyes...they're so green," he says, wondering. He's seen them before, but never noticed the hue until now.

Gently, he places a finger on her chin, lifting her face to meet his, cautiously holding her in place as though afraid she'll crumble under the touch.

Her lips, pink and soft, full and welcoming, twist up into a smile—a Slytherin smirk if he ever saw one. "So are yours."

"No," Harry whispers, as though saying it any louder would shatter their moment—shatter them, "your eyes are _so_ green." His hand creeps up her hip, fingers spreading out over her lower back, nerves tingling in his fingers—like tiny heartbeats.

"Again," Daphne whispers. She looks at him, seeming so sure of everything, even if Harry doesn't think she should be. "So are yours, and they're beautiful."

He almost closes the gap, breathlessly saying, "You're one to talk about beauty," before he confidently presses his lips to hers, feeling a rush he hasn't experienced since before the war. A feeling of being alive, of being whole, of being sure, and he knows it's because of her—because of the way she is so sure about him.

"I think I love you," she whispers, and he knows he does too.

* * *

Harry has never run so fast. His hands push people out of the way. His pulse in his throat, cheek, tongue— _everywhere—_ is all he hears. When the owl arrived, he'd thought it would be a late apology for standing him up, but it was to tell him she'd been asked to go to the Ministry. He still has her note clasped in his hand. He is scared— _more than he has ever been_ —and he's full of worry and adrenaline. His feet skid against the marble floor, but he is stopped by a set of arms.

"Kingsley, you have—" Harry begins, but his voice has already trailed to nothing. He notices a sinking light in Shacklebolt's eyes. "You _know_?"

"The _World_ is different now, Harry—"

"—Bull _shit_ ," Harry replies sharply. He has never sworn in someone's face—not someone he respects— but he's wired differently today, he feels threatened, and broken. "She...she's _innocent_."

It doesn't matter. Harry knows it, he can sense it before Kingsley's mouth opens and tells him words his brain has difficulty processing.

 _She was the price, all of them are free from their memories. He was coming undone, he was rambling, and he was a threat to society._ His head shakes from side to side, unwilling to hear any more. Even if her father were a threat, she isn't—she is innocent, she is sweet, and she is his. _They knew things—Miss Greengrass and her sister. About what the uncaptured ones would do, and they weren't safe, not with those coming for a reckoning. She doesn't remember anything, not anymore. I promise you she will be safe, protected, and I know for you, with your new relationship, that is what matters—_

"Stop," he mumbles.

_Obliviate. Obliviate. Obliviate._

The words are swirling around his brain like water around a plughole. He imagines her memories going— _him, them_ ; he thinks of her crying, weeping uncontrollably as the light in her green eyes fades. Harry wasn't there, he knows that, but he feels like he was, his brain making him _believe_ he has been.

"You _took_ her memories?" Harry asks, needing the confirmation.

Kingsley's shoulders sink, recognising the anger in Harry's eyes.

"I have lost so many, Kingsley—"

"—Harry, _I know—_ "

"— _Especially_ because of the negligence of _this_ Ministry, and now, you've taken the memories of an innocent—"

Kingsley's voice is unwavering. "—She knew _things—"_

"—person, who I happened to lo…" Harry trails off before he says the last word fully, his voice reaching a new height, feeling the burn of everyone's eyes on him. "You made an error, _Minister_." Harry moves towards a fireplace—needing _any exit_ —before he turns to face Kingsley once more. "Oh, and congratulations, Kingsley. I always _knew_ you'd make Minister."

* * *

It doesn't take him long to find her. Somehow, even in her lost memories, Daphne has found _their_ place. The cafe, with the lake and the ice-cream shop, and he can't stop the tears that come to his eyes when he catches sight of her. She looks just as radiant, and if possible, more angelic than ever—not weighed down by memories and mistakes.

He doesn't approach her that day, not sure if he can handle it, but a week later Harry finds his Gryffindor courage and no longer cares if she rejects him or not. He finds her behind the counter, and she smiles, beautiful and sweet. The pain almost takes his breath away.

Harry orders her favourite drink: _a skinny latte with a pump of vanilla_ , and her eyes brighten as though she remembers, even if she truly doesn't, and he promises himself he won't give up on her.

Some days later, he visits again, needing her company. He orders a '99, giving her the flake from his and she grins, a soft, innocent laugh that is music to his ears. Harry notices something in her eyes, but he knows it isn't her memories.

He begins to visit her daily, talking to her, making her laugh and watching her smile. Harry tries, every day again—vowing never to give up.

Today the sun is shining, and Harry has _hope_ today will be the day, even if he thinks _every day_ is the day.

"Hello, _stranger,"_ she says sarcastically, placing her hands on her hips as he blushes. He chooses to sit himself on the bench they had once sat on.

"It has been almost twenty-four hours, I was worried you'd forget my face," Harry grins.

Daphne laughs, turning away, though he spots her cheeks going red.

"I brought you something," Harry smiles, bringing out the daisies he has in his pocket, handing them to her as her eyes look at him with shock.

"They're...—"

"—Your favourite? How _fortunate_ for me," Harry says. "One day, I promise, I'll buy you a bouquet that will _never_ die."

Daphne trails her eyes over him, something about her seems like the woman he had once fallen for, but he tries to not get his hopes up. "I feel like I've known you all my life, Harry _who'll-buy-me-flowers_ Potter _._ "

"Maybe you have."

Daphne looks at him suspiciously, her eyes beginning to widen, her pupils growing, her lips widening in a smile, and Harry's heart has never thumped faster than it did right then.

* * *

oOo

**Author's Note:**

> Find Me On Tumblr: [josiegrae](https://josiegrae.tumblr.com)


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